The Diary of an Insomniac
by Thorn Wild
Summary: Or, 'John Watson is Always Right'. When Sherlock can't sleep he writes in his notebook. He writes about cases, experiments and Doctor John Watson. Will probably be slash.
1. Ending With Bacon

**Author's Note: **Being neither a high functioning sociopath, nor a genius, it is Sherlock's probable insomnia that I can most relate to, having been a cronic insomniac for well over a decade myself. It therefor seemed prudent that, should I attempt to write from his perspective, this would have to be the focus of my story. I don't know exactly where this is going. There may be slash, and the rating will probably change. All the same, enjoy.

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><p>CHAPTER ONE<p>

_For all my brilliant ideas, I concede that this may not have been the most so. While it did help lead the case to a satisfactory close, there may have been less risky ways to achieve this end. The fact of the matter still remains that it worked, however, and damned be John Watson if he pretends otherwise._

_I can live with his disappointment, but I will not be chastised for getting the job done._

Sherlock pauses and lifts the pen off the page, scrutinising his own words. Then he sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair, before throwing his head back over the armrest of the sofa, the hand holding his notebook coming to rest upon his chest.

He lays sprawled across his favourite piece of furniture, looking for all the world like a caricature of some kind of East Asian prince in his blue silk dressing gown. It is seven minutes past four in the morning. He knows this, because from this vantage point he can see the glowing, phosphorous digits on the TV upside down, proclaiming the hour with irritating accuracy. Sherlock can't sleep, and Sherlock is bored to death with it.

It comes in waves, this annoying inability to sleep. When he is at his busiest, he uses it to his advantage. Sleep is a pointless distraction, then, much like eating. But when he is bored, has nothing to do, his insomnia does nothing but irritate him.

So he spends his nights updating his website, playing the violin until John comes downstairs in his pajamas and shouts at him to cut it out or so help him he will smash the damn thing, watching bad telly and writing in his notebook. He occupies himself until he passes out from pure exhaustion some time before dawn. Most days he wakes up a few hours later to find a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of him and his flatmate in the armchair before the TV, reading the paper. It has been a while since he has gone to sleep in his own bed.

It isn't all bad, however. At the very least, his sleeplessness gives him plenty of time to think, his favourite pastime, and think he does. More often than not, he writes his thoughts down.

Lifting his head from the armrest he continues his scribbling.

_It was, I suppose, a bit more dangerous than necessary to gamble the hostage's life the way I did, but she survived, didn't she? She's alive and well and back with her mother, so why shouldn't I bask in the glory of my accomplishments? I take risks all the time! The thrill is in the chase! John knows that, and he doesn't usually mind when I take risks. Although, as he said, usually it's my own life I risk, or his…_

_He doesn't mind when I risk his life. He's far too noble and self-sacrifising. That's his reason, why risking his life is okay. I'm not like that. I enjoy the risk, I don't even think about anyone else._

Sherlock lifts the pen again. Reads what he has written. Sniffs, and then strikes it all out with the pen. It looks so whiny and petulant, like a child trying to justify his actions even if he knows they were wrong. He starts over.

_For all his faults – his inferior intellect, his tendency to be self-righteous, overly noble, stupidly kind and ridiculously positive – John Watson is always right. __But I will never, ever tell him that._

_Last week, Lestrade called me about a hostage situation. A teenage girl had been taken by a desperate criminal following a bank robbery that went horribly wrong. The Yard had no luck getting the girl back, and the criminal was able to make good his escape, taking the girl with him. My aid was requested in tracking them down._

_I did this job expertly, of course. (I was able to deduce that the criminal in question was a ruthlessly intelligent paranoid schizophrenic off his medication and tracked his location to a stronghold he had built in a disused Underground station.) However, retrieving the girl without spooking her kidnapper into killing her also proved too difficult a job for the Scotland Yard, and so I took it upon myself to sneak inside and remove the girl myself. Had I made a wrong move he would have likely shot her in the head, of course, which was why Lestrade was reluctant to do just that, but I did not, and he did not, and Lestrade would have had to eat his hat, had he had one._

_After the girl was safe, the police was free to storm the stronghold and the criminal is now in custody awaiting trial. John won't let me have my victory, however. For several days now I have had to endure his berating me for moving too quickly, being reckless, risking other people's lives. What if he had caught me? What if he had killed the girl, or me, or both? And while I don't care one bit about the risks…_

_He is right. I was high on my own brilliance, blinded by hubris, and I ran in without thinking. My success was not based on skill or intelligence, but sheer luck. While John is, of course, concerned with what could have happened to the girl, I am simply mortified that I fell so low as to abandon all thought and rush into a scene. What an amateurish thing to do, what stupidity! I am never stupid. I don't even know what I was thinking. I wasn't thinking. I got lazy. In short, as John has repeatedly told me, I acted like a 'complete wanker'._

_The moral implications make little difference to me, but I understand that the risk was also unacceptable on such a level. As John so elegantly put it, I made a 'right mess of things', and should be ashamed of myself. And, as previously mentioned, John Watson is always right._

Sherlock closes his notebook, feeling suddenly tired and heavy-headed. He closes his eyes (only for a moment, he assures himself) and presently falls asleep.

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><p>A low sizzling noise fills his ears, and he feels his nose twitch slightly. There is a smell, too, like burning flesh. His eyes open a fraction, but he quickly closes them again to block out the warm sunlight that fills the room, glaring and far too bright for his sleepy eyes. A moment later, he ventures another peek at his surroundings, orientating himself. The sizzling noise seems to stem from the kitchen, as does the smell. He groans, stretches, turns over onto his side and focuses on the coffee table. Predictably, there stands a cup of tea.<p>

'You're awake!'

Sherlock turns his head and sees John standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He is smiling.

'Good morning,' he says.

Sherlock grunts a reply and rubs his eyes.

'I'm off to the surgery in a few minutes,' says John. 'Just cooking you some bacon. Be sure to eat it, you know you have to eat.' He disappears into the kitchen again.

Bacon. Of course. Pig's flesh. Sherlock stretches, yawns and reaches for the cup of tea. It is still warm.


	2. May Contain Traces of Nuts

**Author's Note**: Upped the rating to M, due to language and slightly adult themes. Do enjoy!

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><p>CHAPTER TWO<p>

_It was obviously the boyfriend. I just haven't been able to figure out exactly how he did it yet…_

_The death is only counted as suspicious because the girl was allergic to almost everything and was meticulous about avoiding any and all allergens. It makes no sense for someone that careful to into anaphylactic shock, as she would never have gone near anything that might have caused it. My only conclusion, therefor, is that she must have been somehow poisoned with an allergen, causing her death._

_My main clue was in talking to the boyfriend. His general countenance and manner was not consistent with someone who has just lost a loved one. It is also quite obvious that he has been cheating on her. It may or may not have been a bad idea to point this out to him. John was unimpressed._

_But to figure out how he did it… That is a far more difficult affair._

Sherlock looks down at his notebook and fingers his violin idly, mind full of thoughts. It was a complete coincidence that he ended up at that crime scene today. John and he were really following a lead for a private consultation when they came upon the house surrounded by ambulances and curious neighbours. The victim had died in bed, mid-coitus. Her boyfriend had acted very distraught about the whole thing, but Sherlock saw through it. He texted Lestrade about it immediately.

'She was everything to me!' the boyfriend said unconvincingly when Sherlock interviewed him. 'I don't understand how this happened! She was always so careful with not exposing herself to anything she was allergic to… I've always made sure not to eat anything she's allergic to, as well, whenever I'm around her, in case it somehow gets in her system…'

Sherlock took him in. He was wearing a dressing gown and stank of sex. As they had wheeled his girlfriend into the ambulance, he had stood off to one side with the victim's sister. Nobody else could have noticed the way he looked at her, or the way she tried to avoid looking at him. It had obviously been a one-time thing, most likely while drunk. She was ashamed of it. He was not. He wanted it to happen again, but she was unwilling to hurt her sister.

With his girlfriend out of the way, the man was probably hoping for a passionate encounter in the throws of grief, as the sister sought comfort from him, ending in further copulation.

'I loved her so much!' the boyfriend concluded.

'I see,' said Sherlock. 'Is that why you slept with her sister?'

At that point, John took hold of him, pulled him away and told him off for lack of tact and sensibility.

Sherlock drags the bow across the strings of the violin in a slow, atonal movement.

'Sherlock, in the name of _fuck_, will you stop that? It's two in the bloody morning!' comes a shout from upstairs. Sherlock smiles, utterly satisfied.

_John deserves everything that's coming to him for pissing on my parade, _he adds in his notebook.

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><p><em>Known allergens that the deceased reacted to: <em>

_1. Nuts: All kinds of true nuts, as well as peanuts and nut seeds, but not cashew nuts._

_2. Citrus fruits: All._

_3. Pollen: Most common pollens._

_4. Animals: Cats and dogs, rodents, rabbits, horses and most other common furry animals and pets._

_5. Food allergies: Peppers, mushrooms, onions, nutmeg, wheat, pineapple, kiwi_

_Nutmeg would be a likely suspect had it indeed been an accidental death, since they put nutmeg in all kinds of tinned foods, sauces and so on without stating it in the ingredients, simply referring to it as 'spices'. However, as we know, this woman's death was no accident, and as such all allergens are on the table until such time as all tests of the body are complete. Additionally, had it been something she ingested during a meal she would have reacted almost immediately and never made it to bed._

'Sherlock, I'm falling asleep on my feet and I have work in the morning. May I _please_ go to bed?'

'No, John, I need you.'

John sighs and glares, but makes no move to leave the room. Instead he rubs his face with his hands and shakes his head as though to clear it. Then he sits down at his laptop and opens a browser window.

'What am I supposed to be looking for again?' he yawns.

'These allergens,' says Sherlock and throws down the notebook on the table next to the laptop. 'We need to find out how they could have entered her system without her directly ingesting them.'

'Shouldn't we at least wait for the results of the autopsy?' asks John, looking up at him. Then he smiles. 'Of course we shouldn't, because _you_ need to prove how bloody clever you are.' He looks over the list. 'Nuts are the most likely suspects,' he says.

'How do you know?'

John looks up at him again, one eyebrow raised. 'Doctor?' he says, indicating himself with his hand. 'I do know a little about these things. Most of the food allergies cause gastrointestinal symptoms, not respiratory ones. Rubbing cat hair or pollen in her face seems like a very round-about method of doing things. Anything citrusy would have a very strong smell and she wouldn't let it near her. Nuts, however, could be disguised easily, and if she's allergic enough all that would be needed is a tiny piece of peanut stuck in his teeth.'

Sherlock's phone buzzes. At this time of night it must be important. He checks his text. It's from Lestrade.

'They've completed the autopsy,' he says to John.

'And?'

'Tests show traces of nuts in her system,' says Sherlock, noting that John looks pleased with himself, 'and she had semen in her stomach and mouth.'

John slaps his forehead suddenly. 'Brazil nuts!' he exclaims. 'Of course! Why didn't I see it before?'

'Sorry?' Sherlock is puzzled.

'Brazil nuts can be sexually transmitted! Through semen!' John is grinning now. 'He eats the nuts, asks her to suck him off when the appropriate amount of time has passed, and she ingests the nuts when she swallows and goes into anaphylactic shock! Oh, that's brilliant.' He grins up at Sherlock. 'What a way to kill someone! Would have been the perfect murder.'

Sherlock is, for once, entirely speechless.

John sits back in his chair and closes the lid of the laptop. Then he glances up at Sherlock again, looking uncharacteristically smug. 'Well?' he says. 'Aren't you going to text Lestrade?'

Sherlock picks up his notebook from the table, scribbles, _Brazil nuts!_ and retrieves his mobile from his pocket.

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><p><em>I am unaccustomed to being up-staged, out-deduced if you will. While it initially offended my intellect slightly, it really was quite refreshing.<em>

_John was right, of course. Further examinations reveal that traces of brazil nuts existed in the boyfriend's semen as well. It is up to the police to ensure a confession from the boyfriend, but I can of course act as a witness since he told me specifically that he never ate anything she was allergic to when they were together._

_This should come as no surprise. Doctor John Watson is, after all, always right._

Sherlock lifts the pen off the page and smiles a little. 221B Baker Street is completely quiet. It's three o'clock in the morning. In the chair before the muted TV, John is curled up fast asleep. It doesn't look very comfortable, and occasionally he turns his head and snores loudly. Sherlock gets off the sofa. He grabs a blanket and drapes it over his sleeping flatmate. Then he returns to his seat and picks up the notebook again.

_John deserves his sleep. He has done so very well today._


End file.
